


The Grey Hoodie Chronicles

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: 'cause i have a thing for oliver's grey hoodie, F/M, PWP, smut - please read responsibly, the grey hoodie (smut) chronicles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 22:55:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5604052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  Oliver + Felicity + that grey hoodie = smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grey Hoodie Chronicles

**Author's Note:**

> Because [I reblogged a grey hoodie gifset](http://machawicket.tumblr.com/post/135644498317/mrseclipse555-oliver-queen-favourite-outfit), and it all went downhill from there. (Downhill? Is smut-town downhill? I think it is.) Ahoy, smut. Please read responsibly. Happy New Year! ;)

 

 

It was really all Dig’s fault.

Felicity is very firm in her stance on that. He’s known her more than three years, now, and he should _know_  she is not a talented catcher of things flying through the air. 

Yes, okay, fine, he’d tossed her an apple. That she’d requested. _But still_ , she didn’t say _throw that apple at my face_. Dig chose to hurl it at her, and the completely predictable end result was her fumbling for the apple, dropping her half-drunk coffee, and getting too-warm liquid all over her bright blue dress. 

She’d yelped, he’d apologized, she’d glowered, and then he’d run out to get her a replacement coffee.

Which is why she’s standing by the monitors in the lair, wearing just her favorite Mary Janes, a pair of purple lace panties, and Oliver’s way-too-big-for-her grey hoodie when Oliver, himself, arrives unexpectedly. He steps off the elevator holding a coffee from Buzzzz, and wearing a well-cut grey suit and a slightly puzzled expression.

“Felicity?” he calls out, moving towards her. “Dig told me to bring–-”

He jerks to a halt mid-stride, eyes going wide when he sees her. The bottom edge of the hoodie hits her high on the thigh, but she knows she’s basically covered. Still, there’s so much sudden, unexpected heat in his gaze that she swears she can feel it slipping along her skin as he takes her in.

“Hey,” she says, giving him a little wave, though her hand is mostly swallowed up by the entirely-too-long sleeves. She should roll them up, maybe. 

“What are you wearing?” he chokes out, and, _oh_ , Felicity knows that look. She  _loves_ that look –- the flush high on his cheekbones, the sudden sharpness of his gaze as he basically leers at her bare legs. Her pulse jumps under his lustful gaze, and she aches to touch him.

But first, Felicity slides closer to her monitors, quickly engaging the lockdown protocol that’ll keep anyone trying to get into the lair _out_  until she disengages it. In about, oh, maybe twenty minutes or so? Because she’s really pretty sure he’s not going anywhere with that bulge in his pants, and she’s already throbbing with need.

And here’s good. Here’s _fine_. The conference table is plenty sturdy enough, probably?

“Well,” she says, drawing out the word a little more than is strictly necessary. “I borrowed your hoodie.” When his mouth falls open, she knows that the sight of her in his hoodie is working for him. So she reaches up and toys with the zipper pull a little; she can’t help smirking when he actually sucks in a gasping breath. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Finally, Oliver blinks his way out of his lusty paralysis and practically lunges at her. “So fucking hot,” he mutters, one hand gathering the warm fabric of the hoodie and yanking her closer. He leans into it, kissing her with a desperation that she really, truly appreciates.

Slipping her hands underneath his suit jacket, she tugs until they’re flush against each other, her head tilted back sharply to meet his kisses. And the way he’s kissing her is overwhelming –- he’s got his tongue in her mouth, one big hand clutching her closer, the other dropping to her thigh, then dragging up beneath the hem of his hoodie to squeeze her ass.

Felicity groans into his mouth, bracing herself by hooking her fingers around his ridiculous biceps so she can lean back and nip at his lower lip. “Oliver.”

He looks down at her, his gaze almost continually dropping to her lips. “Yeah?”

She grins up at him. “Where do you want me?”

The inhuman noise that drags out of him does _quite_  a lot for her ego. And then he’s hoisting her up, and she wraps her legs around his waist, grinding a little against the hard muscle of his abdomen. God, his abs are insane. 

She expects him to carry her to the conference table, to lay her out in the spotlight and unwrap her. Instead, he takes three long steps to the work table beside her rarely used fifth monitor and drops her not-too-carefully to the cool metal surface. She yelps, but he just quirks an eyebrow at her and drops to his knees before her.

His hands are under his hoodie, sliding her underwear down, and she lifts her hips to help. Oliver’s actions are swift and utilitarian -– _get Felicity naked_  –-until he reaches her ankles. Then he slows, carefully maneuvering the lace off of her heels, before leaning in to kiss along the top of her foot, along the strap of the Mary Janes.

“Leaving them on,” Felicity manages. “Got it.”

The smirk he gives her as he kneels up between her legs is nearly enough to make her come before he even touches her. She tightens her thighs against his rib cage, the familiar fabric of his suit jacket rasping against her sensitive skin. But Oliver just leans closer, his gaze fixed on his hands as he slowly drags the zipper down, letting the sides of the hoodie part just enough to show a strip of skin all the way down her body. 

“Gorgeous,” he mutters, cupping her breasts through the fabric, pressing a hot, wet kiss to her neck before tilting his head up to capture her mouth with his. 

Felicity gives as good as she gets, inching forward until the smooth, cool fabric of his tie slips against her hot center. She shivers in his arms, her fingers digging into his back, urging him _even closer_. He’s fully dressed and she’s barely got anything on, and, _damn,_ that’s hotter than she’d ever expected.

Then Oliver shifts, his hands gripping her thighs tightly as he leaves little stinging bites down the column of her throat, across her collarbone, and to the top of her breast. He nuzzles the hoodie out of his way and sucks her nipple into his mouth, working her until she’s squirming against him.

He releases her with a little pop and waits until her eyes blink open to look at him. “Felicity,” he says, drawling out her name in his sexy, sex-soaked voice. “Hold on,” he orders, and then he moves so fast to drop down and shift her thighs onto his shoulders that she nearly _does_  topple onto her back.

Reaching back, she wraps her hands around the very sturdy metal railing surrounding her station. And, God, once his tongue is on her clit, she _needs_  the smooth, cool metal warming under her palms to anchor her to reality.

Because Oliver is good at this. _Soooo_  good at this. And today, he’s driven -– he’s not building her up slowly with teasing licks, or circling fingers. Instead, he’s got two fingers inside her and moving in that familiar rhythm, and his tongue slips and flicks against her clit in that _way_  he has that brings her off so fast.

In fact, she’s almost there already, and he’s barely been down there a minute. When he huffs a laugh against her, his hot breath making her shiver, she realizes she’s been voicing her thoughts. “So good,” she adds. “Oliver, that’s–-  _Ohhhhh_  -– that’s so good.”

He twists his wrist, pressing his fingers against that perfect spot inside of her, and he sucks at her clit and – she is gone, writhing so hard the table screeches its way along the floor a couple inches. But she’s got her hands on the railing even as she falls back, even as she hits her head a little bit too hard on the rail, her hair dangling over the edge, her chest heaving, her thighs shaking around his head as he _keeps going_ , keeps _her_  going, coaxing more from her pleasure-soaked body.

“Oliver,” she finally protests weakly.

He eases back, pulling his fingers from her throbbing core, pressing soft, soothing kisses to her thigh, her hipbone, her stomach. It’s only when his hands slip beneath her to squeeze her ass that she realizes she’s half-hanging off the work table. 

“Felicity,” he says, heat and anticipation in his voice. “Roll over.”

She moans at the command, moving awkwardly to comply. Oliver helps, shifting to his feet as his careful hands urge her onto her stomach, hold her steady while she finds her balance. The heels give her enough height that the table is slightly lower than her waist, leaving her ass in the air. A sight that Oliver appreciates, from the whimpery groaning sounds he’s making as she settles. She only gasps a little at the cool metal surface against her breasts, then she’s arching her back, reaching forwards, weight on her elbows, grabbing onto those surprisingly convenient rails. 

Behind her, she hears Oliver fumbling with his belt, unzipping his pants. “You’re so gorgeous,” he mutters, his calloused fingers landing back on her ass to squeeze and massage her. Then he drags his hands up her back, smoothing his hoodie along her skin with her to expose more of her. She wriggles impatiently, and then he’s got her waist with one hand, the other urging her legs farther apart.

She laughs a little breathlessly when he slides into her, because she can feel the tails of his shirt against her ass, and knows he was so desperate for her that he couldn’t even pause long enough to undress. She assumes this will be mostly for him, because he’s already pulsing his hips against her ass, just enough for some friction, like he can’t _not_  move now that he’s inside of her. Oh, and also he just made her come ridiculously hard, so one just for him is perfectly fine with her.

When he starts to move, _really_  move within her, his thrusts are short and hard. She feels pretty smug that he’s already so far gone. His hands are shaking where he holds her waist.

“So hot,” he’s muttering. “Felicity. Love you. Feel so good.”

She bends her knees a little, uses the railing to push back against him. He groans and bends over her, reaching up to push her hair to one side and drag the hoodie down enough for him to suck and kiss the back of her neck. His tie slithers along her spine, slipping down along her ribcage, and she can feel a couple of his shirt buttons press against her skin. He’s rocking hard against her, picking up the pace, and to her surprise, she feels the heat in her body catch fire and start to burn. 

“Ohhhhh,” she moans, letting go of the railing with her right hand and reaching down, scrabbling at his heavy thigh pressed against hers. Her fingers dig into his flesh, wordlessly asking for more.

“Yeah?” he breathes against her back.

“Yeaaaaah,” she moans, fucking back against him a little bit harder, her back arching.

Oliver thrusts _hard_  and then he... just _stops,_ holding still inside of her. She makes a little squeak of protest, rotating her hips to try to urge him to _move_. But then he’s straightening up behind her, dragging his hands down her back, finding that perfect spot against her waist to hold on. “C’mere,” he orders, keeping her ass tight against his body as he urges her backwards. 

Felicity lets go of his thigh, reaching up to grab the railing with both hands as she moves with him until her arms are out straight, and only her rib cage is still on the table. At this point, his hoodie is in basically a twisted roll of fabric across her upper back, the sleeves pushed most of the way up her arms. 

“Yeah,” Oliver says, his fingers clenching tight. “You look so fucking hot, Felicity.” And then he starts to move again, and it’s harder and faster, jolting the breath out of her in little huffs. Her grip on the railing is the only thing keeping her in place as he slams into her over and over.

Felicity has less leverage, but something about this is really working for her. She turns her head, her cheek pressed against the table. Her eyes drift closed, her entire focus on the pleasure gathering low in her belly, the feel of his cock hitting her deep.

Oliver shifts again, changing the angle in the _best_ way, and she’s moaning almost constantly now. Even _before_  he slips a hand around her hip, his fingers finding her clit with ease now that the table’s not in the way. 

“God, you’re brilliant,” she murmurs, arching into his touch. 

His panting is interrupted by what would be, in less passion-crazed moments, a reluctant laugh – it’s a grumble-y exhale at best, but Felicity can read him so well that she knows he’s amused. He rewards her with his fingers on her clit speeding up, moving fast and light and _just_  how she likes it. 

His motions are sloppy now, rushed and almost arrhythmic, and she knows he’s holding on by a thread, but she’s– “Almost, almost,” she moans. “Ohhhh, that’s –- your hands –-  _Oliver!”_

She’s coming, her legs shaking, her back arching into the feeling, the flood of sensation. And Oliver follows her almost instantly, letting out a shout, his hips jerking against hers as he releases deep inside her. He comes so hard, he stumbles forward and they both end up half-lying on the table, his heavy, comforting weight pressing her into the metal table top. 

“Mmmm,” Felicity breathes, turning her head from where it’s pillowed on her arms to see him half on top of her, half beside her. “That was _good_.” She needs to clean up. And get _dressed_. But this post-sex languor is just too awesome to disturb, so she stays put.

Oliver shifts, pulling out of her with a groan, and then moves to lean his weight on his elbows beside her. He’s still got his _suit jacket_  on, which makes Felicity flush with something like pride. He meets her gaze with a lazy smile. “Yeah?”

She gathers the energy to move, pushing up just enough to reach his lips. Their kiss is warm and slow and sated. “Mmm, yeah,” she murmurs against him. “Didn’t realize you had a thing.”

His eyebrow quirks and he is trying (rather unsuccessfully) not to grin at her. “I hope you know by now that I have _a_ _thing_.”

Felicity rolls her eyes and reaches down to slap his ass. “A thing for me in your clothes,” she said. “I mean, _white dress shirt_  is basically a staple in male fantasy world, so that doesn’t really count.”

His eyes darken and he leans closer. “That _counts_ ,” he argues. “Believe me.”

She purses her lips, considering. “You know, it’s much more likely that the  _mostly-naked_  part is what really turns you on,” she muses. “Like, if i had on my ice cream sundae pajama pants, my panda slippers, a tank top, and your hoodie, you probably wouldn’t react the same.”

Oliver is doing that amused half-smile thing, even as he gives a little disbelieving shake of his head. “I promise you that I would,” he says.

“That sounds like an excellent hypothesis,” she answers, grinning. Because, _yes_ , scientific theory basically _requires_  that they experiment to prove or disprove this words. Which sounds like an awful lot of fun.

Oliver is watching her closely. “The look on your face right now is mildly terrifying,” he comments.

Slowly, Felicity pushes herself upright, pausing to stretch and not even caring that his hoodie is basically framing her body at this point instead of actually providing warmth or cover. Oliver is standing in front of her, suddenly, and wrapping her in his arms. She hugs him back just as fiercely, wondering how he’d managed to pull his boxer-briefs and pants back on while she was all blissed out. His shirt isn’t tucked in, though, and she slides her hands up under the fabric to slide over the scarred skin of his back.

She squeezes him just a little tighter, then steps back, reaching down to zip his hoodie back up. “i’m going to go put some clothes on and head home.”

He nods slowly and gives her a slow, sweet kiss. “Okay.”

“See you at home later,” she says, pausing by the computers to end the lockdown protocol. She’s nearly at the changing room doors when she glances back to Oliver, who’s slowly and carefully tucking his shirt back in, a thoughtful look on his face. “Don’t worry,” she calls, “I’ll bring the hoodie.”

-30-


End file.
